


A Duel at Dawn

by irenesadler



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Duelling, F/M, Gambling, Humor, Implied Breakfast, Male-Female Friendship, Political Drama, Post-Game(s), Romance, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irenesadler/pseuds/irenesadler
Summary: The Queen of Lyria and Rivia accepts an unusual series of propositions. The reward is worth the risk.
Relationships: Meve (The Witcher)/Reynard Odo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	A Duel at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I love Meve so much like for real she's so badass.

All things considered, Meve thought her return to the throne had gone quite smoothly. There was always some risk of disaster in any regime change, even (perhaps especially) if the old one hadn’t lasted long, but other than the complaints of a few barons and some trouble that they yet had with the bandits and scavengers, a month had come and gone in relatively idyllic peace. In fact, it almost felt as though she had never been away at all, except for the absence of certain individuals and the new scar on her face. Her life had fallen back into the carefully regimented days and hours she was used to; her mornings were spent in her office, the afternoons, depending on the day, elsewhere - in the armory, the throne room, out beyond the gates – not a moment wasted.

Except for one small change, which she’d instated almost as soon as she’d returned. The Queen had always been a notoriously early riser, but while in the past she’d used the predawn hour to get a head start on the day’s work, she now dedicated it to her own private ends. The castle was always quiet in the early morning; she told people she wished to enjoy the peace and that she was therefore not to be disturbed before the sun rose. If anyone had found this statement at odds with the fact that she invariably spent that hour in armor in the training yard, none said so. They wouldn’t dare, likely. Her personal time therefore became customary, with few exceptions, until, on an otherwise unremarkable morning, Meve noticed she’d acquired an audience. A figure loomed awkwardly behind the fence that separated the part of the courtyard that was meant for horses and the part for training at arms.

“Count Odo,” she said, striding over with the mace she’d taken up for the practice slung over her shoulder. “This is unexpected. Care to join me?”

Her favorite knight shook his head and frowned.

“No, thank you. A retinue has arrived. I’ve stashed them in th’ great hall, for the time being; it’s the Baron of –“

Meve held up a gloved hand. He stopped in mid-sentence, blinking.

“Sir, I believe it is yet –“ she glanced skyward –“half an hour, before the sun rises. Is the Baron likely to die as a result of waiting that much time for my attention?”

“Well, no,” Reynard said. “I suppose not.”

She studied the twist to his lips with amusement.

“But he _is_ likely to chew your ear off until then, I suppose.”

His little smile told her the answer; she sighed, rolled her eyes, and then grinned as an idea occurred to her. She swung the mace idly at the end of her arm a few times before delivering it.

“I’ll make a wager with you,” she said, a teasing gleam in her eye, “We’ll fight a match, you and I. If you win, I will immediately attend to the Baron and his dire emergency. If _I_ win, the Baron can very well wait until after breakfast. Either way, you can blame the delay on me.” 

“I would never do such a thing,” Reynard said under his breath, but he swung over the fence and landed heavily on the other side, hiding an unseemly eager smile as he did. “Very well. I accept.”

“I thought you might,” Meve replied.

(The Baron was less than pleased to be kept waiting until quite a long time after breakfast. The Queen waved his anger away with an idle remark about time being the one thing everyone had to spare, and attended to the emergency, such as it was, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.)

The next day before dawn, Meve spotted the cloaked knight yet again, waiting in the same spot. She strode across the frosted turf with longsword in hand, one eyebrow raised inquiringly. “It cannot be _another_ baron,” she said to him. He shook his head.

“No. I was hoping for a rematch, actually.”

A slow grin crossed the Queen’s face.

“Oh? And what are your terms, Count Odo?”

“Ah,” he answered, leaning on the fence in a most uncharacteristically casual manner, “I thought, should I win, you’d agree to never attack me with a mace again.”

She laughed.

“Very well. And if not?”

“If not,” Reynard said, frowning very seriously into the distance, “Then, like yesterday, I thought we might again save court business until _after_ breakfast.”

“Ah,” Meve said. “Well, in that case, let the best woman win.”

(Meve almost never ate breakfast, as a rule; she had never had much desire for food before noon. This fact was well-known but went unmentioned.)

“You’re back again,” she said to him the next morning, seeing him lurking in the fog as she made her way out into the world. “It can’t be another rematch you’re wanting; you _did_ win yesterday.”

“Oh no,” he replied, blandly. “I just didn’t wish to eat breakfast a second day in a row. You don’t mind, do you?”

She grinned dangerously and shook her head. “I’ll gladly spare you the burden.”

(The burden was spared him for several more days after that. If anyone noted the Queen’s sudden modification of her habits, they of course said nothing of it, and within a few weeks both the inclusion of the Count Odo in her morning routine and the knight’s new disinterest in taking breakfast became unremarkable.)

Not that the change went _unnoticed_ ; the Queen one day found that her dueling partner was not waiting alone when she appeared in the courtyard at the appointed hour. An extra shadow stood beside him in the blue half-light.

“Reynard,” she said, to the taller of the pair, and then, eyeing the shorter somewhat darkly, “Gascon. Up early, are we?”

The Duke’s ascension to his proper title had yet to be officially declared, but he’d already taken up several of the habits of the idle rich – including rising at an unreasonably late hour each day.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Reynard said, stiffly. _Your Grace_ eyed him, sensing a shift in the wind; this wasn’t the pleasantly sardonic man who had been faithfully turning up to her practice sessions the last few weeks.

“Hello Meve,” Gascon chirped, not attending. “Sure am.”

“Come to get some exercise, have you?”

“Oh lord, no. I’m here to bet.”

“What?”

Meve turned a pointed glare on both men. Reynard frowned studiously into the middle distance. Gascon grinned back at her irreverently.

“I’m here to place a bet on my best friend,” he continued. “Sir Reynard Odo.”

A cold wind whistled over the walls, stirring a few dead leaves. Meve leaned against the fence, deciding abruptly to humor the man; whatever scheme he had in mind would doubtless be entertaining, before she shot it down.

“Explain, if you’d be so kind,” she said. Gascon propped himself up with his back to the fence and spoke over his shoulder.

“I’d be delighted to. It’s about this coronation you’ve decided to hold for me,” he said. “See, I appreciate the effort, honor, and so forth, but I _really_ can do without all the ceremony, you know?”

“The ceremony is customary,” Meve said, with an amused glance toward Reynard. He remained unapproachable. 

“Oh, yes, well. So Reynard told me.”

“Th’ court expects it,” the Count said, snapping out of his reverie at the sound of his name.

“The court _does_ expect it,” Meve agreed. “And I’d be _quite_ out of order were I to deny them their pageantry.”

“Yes,” Gascon said, nodding seriously. “This was also explained to me by your beloved knight. Nevertheless, I’d rather not. So, this leads us to where we are now – my wager, I mean. If Sir Reynard wins, I’d like a reprieve.”

“I _could_ just command you to do it anyway,” Meve mused, smirking.

“Oh, yes, of course.” The Duke waved a dismissive hand. “But this way’s much more fun, isn’t it?”

“Certainly. Very well; if Sir Reynard wins, I’ll _consider_ passing over the ceremony. And if I win..”

The Queen considered a moment, eyeing Sir Reynard meditatively. A sly grin crossed her face.

“My own prize I’ll determine later,” she said. The Count’s stiff frown turned somewhat uncertain.

“Done,” Gascon exclaimed, forcibly seized and shook his monarch’s hand, and waved his champion toward the ring. “Carry on then, Sir Count. Don’t let me down out there.”

“Well, Reynard,” Meve said a few minutes later, sword and shield at the ready, “Shall we?”

It was widely known that the Queen had few equals at arms, but, if any were truly her match, it might well be Sir Reynard. He himself claimed she would sometimes let him win, when the mood took her. Her prowess was put on immediate display for her audience of one as she blocked her knight’s first attack on her shield, returned a lunge that locked their blades together for an instant, and then sent his sword sailing off into the dirt with a twist of her wrist. Reynard raised his hands in acknowledgement of his defeat, a faint smile hovering on his face.

“What? I want a rematch!” Gascon shouted. “He didn’t even try.”

Reynard yanked his helmet off and rolled his eyes. Meve stood, weapon and shield dangling at the ends of her arms, squinting suspiciously at him. Perhaps Gascon was onto something; it did seem as if her victory had come a little too easily.

“Come on, Queenie,” Gascon pleaded from beyond the fence. “Best out of three? He’s good for it.”

The knight shook his head gently in response to her unspoken, but nevertheless sternly communicated, question. Meve huffed disgustedly at him and turned to the Duke. “Oh, fine. Best of three it is.”

A bell rang the hour. Sunlight broke out over the tops of the towers. Gascon laughed delightedly.

“You’re a good sport, Your Maj. Now, Reynard, what about breakfast? It’s time we talked strategy, so we don’t have a repeat of this at your _next_ fight.”

The Count met Meve’s eyes; a small, warm smile flashed across his face. She stopped pretending to be annoyed with him and smiled back.

“Sorry, Gascon,” he said. “I’ve a –“

“Prior engagement?” The Queen suggested, pointedly.

“-I’m not hungry, anyway,” he said.

(Gascon might well have found this behavior suspicious, but, like everyone else, he kept the thought to himself if he had it, and only winked cheekily at Meve the next time their paths crossed. The Queen gave no sign of noticing. A fine snow began to fall that evening, and more and heavier the next day. Meve spent it buried, from dawn to dusk, in paperwork of one kind of another: debts, foreign; armor, missing; peasants, assaulted; mercantile vessels and the rate of their taxation; and sundry vestigial problems still unresolved since before the war. At night, a meeting with her advisors ended late enough to see the snow turn to a cold rain near midnight. Before bed, she said wearily, “Reynard, if I’m not there tomorrow morning, you can tell Gascon I forfeit.”)

But she was. Rain poured down from the sky in curtains as she faced off against the shivering Count, observed by a disheveled Duke wrapped in half a dozen blankets against the cold.

“Is that a mace?” Reynard asked, squinting at her weapon in the dim light. “You promised me you wouldn’t.”

“Of course not, my dear,” Meve replied primly. “This is a warhammer. Come, let’s get this over with."

Reynard’s first swing was an attack aimed high; a distraction, Meve thought. She ducked under it, and as it was followed up by a lunge to the vitals, realized that she had been wrong; her own swing from too close of a range was merely shoved aside by the knight’s shield and a rebound club to the left dealt with likewise. She shifted back, to bring herself to a more useful distance, which was another mistake; she overcommitted to a third hit in a row. Reynard stepped back in, avoiding it, dropped his own shield, and grabbed her right arm. A brief struggle ensued, which he won; Meve crashed to the muddy earth and found herself squinting up at the end of the Count’s sword, which hovered a few inches away from her left eyeball. He inclined his head politely, rain dripping off the end of his nose. Meve sighed.

“Damn. Fine, I yield.”

Gascon cheered in the distance. Reynard pulled her back to her feet by the wrist, doing his best not to look smug. Meve was naturally inclined to be a sore loser; she tried to glower but ruined the effect somewhat by instead sneezing loudly.

“Let’s not rest on our laurels,” Reynard suggested. “Shall we go in before we catch our deaths?”

“What,” Meve asked, “No kiss for the victor?”

“Oh, if you wish,” he replied, pulling her closer for it. She pressed her lips to his and then shoved him unceremoniously into the mud. Gascon laughed. Reynard did not.

She saw to it that he got over his sulk very quickly.

“The series is a draw, and I’ve one fight still to win,” Gascon announced, sometime later, over lunch. “So, Queen, I’ll have to ask you to refrain from dunking my champion in any more puddles. Also, I must add, from keeping him up half the night.”

“I suppose I can concede the former. As for the latter – you’ll have to ask him yourself,” The Queen responded. Gascon turned a beseeching gaze on Reynard, who shrugged dismissively.

“No promises,” he said.

(A day of particularly murderous tax negotiation followed; Meve found herself considering the merits of turning _every_ matter of state over to judgement by personal combat, for a hasty and relatively painless conclusion. However, she reasoned, in time, Reynard Odo might find himself growing tired from overwork, which she would find personally inconvenient.)

Then again..

She strode out into a clear morning, the frost rising into the air with each breath. Reynard smiled gently at her, to all appearances as fresh as ever; Gascon, huddling nearby with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug, put up a ragged cheer for his fighter.

“Well,” Reynard said, as the noise died, “Good luck to you.”

“Unnecessary, my dear,” Meve replied crisply, drew the greatsword she favored most, and saluted her opponent, for propriety’s sake. Reynard replied with gracious courtesy, crouched behind his shield, and the fight was on. Meve led with a lunge and a twist of her blade; the disarm failed as Reynard slid it away with an economical parry. She could hardly have expected to carry off the same trick twice, however, and so her next swing was made without rancor; it received the same treatment, and then she found herself on the defense, blocking a series of attacks and turning as the knight made a laudable attempt to carry through and get behind her. The clash of metal rang out loud in the icy air. The trick would, perhaps, have worked on a less experienced foe; Meve thought one of her own might be called for in return. She therefore abruptly tangled their swords, shifted forward to lock the hilts, and rammed her right shoulder into the center of Reynard’s chest.

The blow knocked him back no more than an instant before he recovered. Rather than, as she hoped, having the wind knocked out of him; he shifted his weight forward and bore down into their locked swords. Meve, however, had no intention of muscling her way through. She took a risk and let go of her sword, aimed a kick at the back of the knight’s left knee, and dropped to regain her weapon. A crash of falling armor indicated that her somewhat illegal tactic had borne fruit. Her hand came into contact with the hilt of her sword. She turned her head to look for an opening as she stood, in time to see Reynard drop his own weapon and launch himself at her in a tackle. Fortunately, she had the presence of mind to fling her right arm out to the side, to avoid skewering either of them on the sword she was still unconsciously gripping as she hit the ground with a resounding crash.

“Time out,” she wheezed, as the air left her lungs in a sudden rush. Reynard looked down, face a few inches away from hers, smiled, and sat up. Meve followed suit, sword still in hand, and propped herself up on her elbows, coughing. Through watering eyes, she saw Reynard glance at the weapon.

“I yield, Your Grace,” he said with a grin, and yanked off his helmet. Meve finished catching her breath and accepted with a nod and a laugh. Gascon hopped the fence, his drink forgotten, and scrambled across the frozen turf:

“This is _clearly_ a draw, your queen,” he complained.

“Nonsense; Sir Reynard yields,” was her answer; she balanced her sword carefully across her knees, to preserve the blade from the ice on the ground, and added, “As well he might. Was this a true battle, I’d have relieved him of his head while he were still in midair. Or, if not then, certainly now, instead of continuing to sit here on the ground.”

“Oh, come on,” the Duke said. “This isn’t fair. Best of – five?”

“No thanks,” Reynard said, setting his helmet on the ground.

“Double or nothing? One more round.”

The Count shook his head. Meve grinned, stretched her shoulders until the joints popped gently, and declared, “The ceremony’s on, Brossard. No getting out of it. Also, I believe I may now claim my own prize.”

“What’s that then?” Gascon asked, irritably.

“Oh, the usual thing will do,” she replied, ignoring his tone, eyes meeting Reynard’s steady gaze. “The knight usually wins the lady’s favor, isn’t it? Although, it’s the other way around, in this situation, with the lady winning the knight’s favor instead.”

“You’ve always had it,” Reynard replied. She shrugged.

“Oh, well then. In that case, I believe it ought to be the knight’s hand in marriage. If the knight wouldn’t object.”

“No,” the knight said quietly. “I wouldn’t.”

(Gascon’s ceremony was lovely; a blaze of velveteen nobles, sainted clerics, and an unexpected but not unwelcome envoy from far Mahakam, come in a dazzle of gold and steel to help restore him to his rightful demesne. Queen Meve presided in untouchable, remote glory. The somewhat sulky honoree accepted his due with a believable expression of gratitude, sat through an unwarranted number of speeches after, and attended the reception that followed. It lasted nearly until dawn, by which time the new Duke was far too drunk to complain anymore.)

Just before the sun rose, the Queen escaped the still-ongoing celebration and its choking clouds of smoke, in favor of the cleaner if cold air out in the unfamiliar yard of the Brossard compound. The snowbanks glowed palely in the blue light, and, looming darkly among them, she found her favorite knight.

“Hello, Reynard. Thought you’d be out here,” she said to him, fondly.

“Good morning, my dear,” he replied, “I wouldn’t wish to disappoint.”

“Oh, there’s not much chance of _that_.”

They wandered up the steps to the top of the bailey, where the sun could be seen to rise over the snowy fields. After it had found its way well over the edge of the horizon, and an accompanying rooster had awoken somewhere in the village beyond the wall, Meve broke the silence.

“So. Breakfast?”

Reynard considered a moment.

“Oh, why not?”


End file.
